


Let Sleeping Scully Lie

by ScullyGolightly



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, POV Fox Mulder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22112266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScullyGolightly/pseuds/ScullyGolightly
Summary: A collection of times Mulder watched Scully sleep
Relationships: Fox Mulder & Dana Scully, Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 15
Kudos: 44





	Let Sleeping Scully Lie

Some stakeout partner. She’s out like a light and we’re barely halfway into our assigned posting. And not only that—she had fallen asleep while I was talking. I think the mothman myth is pretty interesting (and also not a myth), but I guess my insights served as more of a bedtime story for the enigmatic Dana Scully.

Her body is slumped towards the middle console, her head lolling on her left shoulder. Just a little further and she could rest on my arm. I wouldn’t mind. I never mind when Scully is in my personal space, that’s probably why I invade hers so often. I crane my neck to see her sleeping expression. Her lips are slightly parted, moist and pink. The apples of her cheeks are pink, too. She is all bundled up, wearing too many layers. I told her she’d be too warm, but she said that’s why she dressed in layers, so she can modify based on varying temperatures. What must it be like to apply logic to everything? But she didn’t anticipate being lulled to sleep by the warmth of her cocoon and now possibly overheated while she naps on the clock. I’m going to assign that and the late hour to the reason she fell asleep, not my ramblings. 

I’m going to tell her that she drooled on me. 

***

Pale and frail, ghostlike. Haunting. My petite partner, my tiny Scully, looks even smaller than before. Swimming in a too large hospital gown, lost among the sterile, white sheets of a hospital bed. Color on her face is not where it should be—there are no rosy cheeks, but there are dark, ominous circles under her eyes. A tear slips out from under a closed lid, making a shimmering line on her cheek and then disappearing as the pillowcase absorbs it. I want to absorb it. I want to absorb all of her pain, every sad thought she has, every worry and fear. Is she having a nightmare or are her emotions simply invading her slumber, giving her no respite?

I ache. I ache to touch her, to hold her, to tell her everything will be okay and mean it so she can believe it. So I can. I’ve had this hopeless feeling before when I lost her. I am on the verge of losing her again. The end of her life would be the end of mine, too; my life as I know it, with Scully in it—it’s the only life I want to know.

She shifts, sinking more into the bleached blankness of the bedding, now sunken like her pallid cheeks that were once supple with a healthy glow that would raise, fleshy and pink, under her eyes when she smiled or would gracefully display a blush across them if I was lucky enough to elicit one. Her papery, bloodless lips part as she lets out an unconscious sigh, a breath that denotes life, this imperceptible indicator that she has not been taken from me yet, not fully. And I cling to these signs of life like they are the branches of a bare tree, brittle from the harsh, dry, winter air. Will it sustain and hold me or break and send me into a gray, Scully-less abyss? I don’t know if I have the strength to try but I have to—I have to summon up a modicum of hope to get us both through. It’s similar to how Scully turns to her faith in times of crisis. She has no proof that the answers are there; no science will tell her that God can heal the sick, unbreak the broken, but she believes in something undefinable to get her through tough times. She believes in me, someone who believes in all things undefinable except for her God. She can be my faith, she can be my religion. 

I slip out of my chair to my knees and I pray.

***

The corners of her lips are turned up ever so slightly—a sleeping, smiling Scully...next to me...in my bed. I’ve died and gone to heaven, I’m sure of it. I have half a mind to pinch myself, literally pinch myself, so I know this is real. Or maybe I should pinch Scully and she’ll wake up and we can do another round of the naked pretzel. 

Her lips twitch and the sleeping grin widens like she can hear my thoughts. Or she could be dreaming. I hope she has visions of our love-making dancing through her head. I resist the urge to cover her mouth with mine—that mouth, good lord—that mouth that had kissed me so earnestly, those lips that had wrapped around my cock, that had expelled panting breaths of ecstasy as I moved inside her. That mouth that had spoken the words “I love you” both in and out of the heat of passion.

“I love you,” I say even though I said it before, even though she is asleep. I don’t have control over saying it—looking at her like this, so serene and peaceful and sated, the words just spill out of me. “I love you.”

***

They have the same expression, my partner and my child. Scully’s head is dipped down towards William, her lips grazing the soft down of his hair. His face is angled towards her, seeking out the warmth and comfort of his mother. Two sets of half moons lined with silky lashes hide their beautiful crystal blue eyes.

The still, calm image that I am currently burning into my memory comes alive as William squirms inside his swaddling. I am about to reach for him, but he does not wake and I do not want to disturb this precious pair if I don’t have to. His lips open and flutter, making a phantom suckling motion. He is dreaming about his mother nursing him. I can relate, I dream about Scully’s boobs all the time. I try to push the anxiety back, keep the looming dread at bay, because this is a perfect moment, and the good moments that lie ahead of me will only be dreams and memories—not tangible, like now, where I can reach out and stroke the soft cheek of my newborn son or tenderly brush back a fallen strand of hair on the woman that I love. 

I don’t want to leave. 

***

I open the door to the bathroom and it casts a spotlight on Scully’s sleeping form—a bright spot in this drab, brown motel room. Seriously, everything in here is brown. It’s depressing—like our lives and our future. Before turning off the light, I kneel down next to the bed to look at my partner. My partner in work, in love, in life, and now in crime. 

Her hair seems a more vibrant red surrounded by all the dull, muted browns. There is a box of dark brown hair dye in the bathroom that I plan on ceremoniously throwing away in the morning. We will get a wig for her or a hat, but we will not get rid of her Scully-red hair. Not on my watch. 

Also bright red is the angry gash just above her left brow put there by a super soldier who had hurled her into the cliffside. That danger was now magnetite dust on the quarry floor a hundred miles away, but the danger persists. As does the heartbreak and the sense of loss that we both feel knowing our son is out there somewhere and that we can’t be with him—that we might never be able to see him again. Her lips are pressed into a frown, her forehead worried with worry lines. Even in sleep she can’t escape the stress of being on the run. 

I don’t want this for her. When I was in hiding by myself it had been the loneliest I had ever felt. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy, let alone the love of my life. But she’s here, by my side, fighting for my truth that has become her truth and our fight. I don’t know what I did to deserve this woman, but I know she did nothing to deserve this pain, and I make a vow to her from my knees on this ugly brown carpet to do everything in my power to lessen that pain.

***

Scully is asleep on the couch when I come out of my office. I haven’t seen her in days and the last time we spoke, we fought. She didn’t come home from the hospital that night and then she stayed at her mother’s for the next few days. I honestly don’t know when she got in, could’ve been hours ago, could’ve been just minutes. Scully has a knack for falling asleep at the drop of a hat. And she’s been so tired lately, working insane hours and putting up with me. She is tired of me, not in a way one is when they are bored, but weary and worn down. But, I can’t seem to get my shit together. I’m not willingly going into the darkness—there’s a pull, some unseen thread tethering me to it. And I don’t want to draw her into it, but I can’t let go of her either—she is my lifeline.

I sit on the edge of the sofa just next to her, hoping the movement will rouse her and we can talk, but she doesn’t wake up. It’s for the best, for now, I suppose, she needs her rest—being with me is exhausting, and I should know, I spend the most time with me, trapped in my head with manic musings and dark thoughts. I would also like a break from it. Her shoulders are hunched up by her neck, tense, nothing about this sleeping figure says relaxed. Her brows are knitted together as if she is lost in thought, or perhaps she is lost in us. I close my eyes and concentrate. I was once able to read her thoughts. What would I hear now?

***

She did it again! I think I have to count the number of times Scully has fallen asleep mid-conversation with me on two hands now. To be fair, our stakeout is incredibly boring and she’s only told me about a thousand times that it’s pointless. I thought that maybe my irresistible charm (and the sugary snacks I brought) would keep her awake. 

We are older now, we don’t bounce back from jet lag and long nights in the basement office like we used to. And we are no longer together, even though I consider this a kind of date. She smirks at me when I say this, but there is something more behind it. Maybe she is seeing the change in me, that I am trying, and that I am not going anywhere, especially not back into the dark. 

She leans into the passenger side door, away from me, her arms folded across her chest. Guarded. Or afraid to let her own guard down. I don’t blame her. The past we share, I can understand the wariness. But I’m hopeful. That smirk from earlier still plays on her lips, like a benevolent ghost. Though her eyes are closed, the spirit of her new attitude towards me shines through.

Once, a little while back, I referred to us being back on a case as “just like old times.” What I was bringing back was the bad old times, not the good in them. This—watching her sleep while on a stakeout, easy and comfortable together—these are the good old times to bring back. I want to keep doing that, keep bringing back the good of us until we are good together again, until it’s the only logical scenario. My girl loves her logic, but the ball is in her court, I just have to make it so it’s easy to lob it in.

***

There is a storm outside, a brilliant lightning show with loud, thundering cracks. It’s a sight to see, but I only have eyes for Scully who seems to be able to sleep through the racket. The sky flashes bright, illuminating her bare skin. A white silhouette of her nude form sprawled out on our bed burns in my retina for a brief moment. I blink and blink and blink and see a slideshow of this fading Scully behind my eyes. She is art. If I were a painter, I would paint her like this. The storm raging behind her as she lies safe and peaceful and warm with the light and shadow doing the tango across her porcelain curves, blazing red hair spilling elegantly across the pillow.

She looks happy. I can see the lovely crinkle of skin by her eyes and the corners of her mouth. I see it on myself now, too, when I look in the mirror. My heart aches, but it is a happy ache, it feels full. We are growing old together, just like I had always hoped, just like I had thought we might never be lucky enough to do.

Jackson will be here tomorrow. He said he’d like to stay with us for awhile. Scully was thrilled, but tried not to show it. We spent the day getting the room ready for him, and then made love late into the night. It’s no wonder she’s conked out, but me, I’m too excited to sleep, excited for us all to be under the same roof together, to have a chance at a family and a happy ever after. Right now, I’d rather stay awake and watch Scully sleep. 


End file.
